Redaction
by RedGrayBall
Summary: Mulder and Scully are called to investigate a murder-suicide which seems to have been scripted in advance by the victims, but soon realise that a terrible power is at work - and they may be next.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: My past works have focused on House, M.D., but lately I've been watching my complete set of X-Files DVDs in preparation for the new movie this summer. So, I thought I'd try my hand at writing an X-Files episode.**

**I'll be trying to stick with the established episode format, albeit likely with some degree of Mulder-Scully relationship development. This story takes place at no particular point in the X-Files story arc except that it's before Mulder is abducted, and before Doggett/Reyes/William. It is not connected with the primary X-Files mythology (colonists/black oil/syndicate/etc). It's a good old-fashioned standalone "Mulder and Scully investigating strange events" story, which is the kind I enjoy best.**

**The core idea for this story is by no means unique, but in this case is taken from a short story I wrote fifteen years ago. If you enjoy what you read, please do take a moment to leave some feedback - I'd love to hear from you.**

* * *

**Akron, Ohio  
August 12  
2:38 PM**

The small bell mounted above the door gave a muted jingle as a tall man entered the specialist antique store, causing the aged shopkeeper to briefly glance up and smile. It was a Monday afternoon, and business was always slow on Mondays.

The prospective customer was one Mr. James Ingles, and he quickly found the area of the store which interested him. He and his wife (Angela) had moved into their new suburban home only two weekends ago, and were now almost completely settled in. Boxes had been unpacked, flattened and stored (though neither of them could foresee ever wanting to move again; the new place was just perfect). New furniture had been bought, delivered and properly positioned. A few choice pieces of old furniture had been given pride of place throughout the house. Neighbours had been met, and new routines had been readily fallen into.

Everything was in place; or rather, _almost_ everything. James Ingles was an architect by profession, and a successful one - he was president of his own firm, which itself had moved to larger premises only two years before. A portion of the new house's garage was devoted to a small studio so that he could occasionally do some work from home, but to be honest, that wasn't where he hoped he'd be spending most of his time. James was a voracious reader, and like so many readers, he had for years toyed with the idea of writing his own version of the Great American Novel.

With the new house came more rooms, and one in particular held most interest for him - James finally had a writing room. One of his several laptop computers was already set up in there, but whilst useful as a tool, the modern machine didn't exactly complement the ambience of the surroundings, which were of rich, dark wood with leather-backed chairs. Whilst he would probably never actually use it to write with, James wanted a good old-fashioned typewriter - at least for display purposes. The Yellow Pages had indicated that he was in luck - there was an antique store only a 20-minute drive away which specialised in such devices, and so he'd taken a long lunch and decided to have a look.

There were several typewriters to be found here, on a large, low table off to the left of the main area of the store; many sitting in open cases of cracked black leather, off-white keys poised and eager for letters and news stories which would very likely never again arrive.

_They're beautiful_, he thought, smiling without realising he was doing so.

He ran his fingers over the keys of Underwoods and Remingtons and Royals, and even more recent IBM Selectrics, completely engrossed, until something seemed to move in his peripheral vision. He glanced over to his right, and his eyes widened.

"Now what is _that_?" he wondered aloud, again drawing a brief glance from the shopkeeper. James walked slowly towards the end of the table and placed his hands on the edge of its scarred wooden surface.

_It's... perfect_, he thought. _Absolutely perfect_.

This typewriter was sitting apart from the rest, and didn't seem to have any carrying-case accompanying it. It was primarily of smooth black metal, with rounded and slightly yellow keys, dark grey levers, and elaborate metalwork set around the edge of the key guard. It bore no brand-name of any kind, and its keys' surfaces were lettered in an unusual typeface - not quite cursive, but not entirely plain either. It looked, like so many old typewriters, not unlike a large metallic insect.

_I wonder who made -_

The thought was cut off before it was finished, and James blinked. Somehow, the lack of a brand marking didn't seem important at the moment. After all, it was an extremely beautiful machine, and it would be ideal in his writing room - it would complement his desk perfectly, for starters.

_OK, so how much do they want for it?_ he wondered, and then almost immediately noticed the handwritten price-card sitting prominently on top of the upper row of keys, where he was reasonably sure nothing had been a moment ago.

_Huh_, he thought, and then shrugged.

The card indicated that this particular typewriter would cost him 450, and that seemed just fine. A bargain, in fact. He picked the machine up and carried it to the counter.

"Ah, now here we are!" the shopkeeper exclaimed with a smile, adjusting his glasses from long-practised habit, and James returned the smile.

"A writer, are you?" the old man asked, taking the price-card and peering at it before beginning to press buttons on the cash register at his side.

"Oh no," James replied with a small laugh. "Not yet, anyway. I just really liked the look of it."

The shopkeeper smiled once again, still ringing up the purchase, and nodded his head twice.

"I know just what you mean," he said. "I have two old Royals at home; can't say I've typed much more than a grocery list on either one. But I do love to see them sitting there."

James grinned in agreement, taking his wallet from his jacket pocket.

"It was four hundred and fifty, wasn't it?" he asked, and the old man nodded once more.

"Four hundred and fifty exactly, yes sir. I'll get that wrapped up for you right away."

Within a few minutes James' purchase was securely encased in bubble-wrap and multiple layers of brown paper, and taking it securely under his arm he reached out to shake the old man's hand.

"Thanks very much," he said. "It really is perfect. Just what I was looking for."

"I hope you enjoy it very much," the shopkeeper replied, his earnest smile never having left his face. "And you be sure to come back when you realise one of those is never enough."

James laughed and nodded by way of response, and left the store. The bright sunshine was momentarily dazzling after having been in the relative gloom indoors, but his eyes quickly recovered and he began making his way back to where he had parked.

From behind the half-drawn blinds of the shop's large display window, the old man watched his newest customer set off down the street with a spring in his step, but the shopkeeper's own smile had faded, to be replaced with a frown.

* * *

**Ingles Residence  
August 12  
8:15 PM**

After removing the last sheet of brown paper and unrolling the copious bubble-wrap, James placed his prized purchase onto the leather place-mat in the middle of the desk. After sliding a sheet of paper into it, he stood back. The writing room was now surely complete.

He ran his fingers over the keys of the device, idly wondering if they would indeed sound as typewriters do on TV. He pressed the 'T' key, and grinned at the characteristic metallic stamping sound which rung out as the corresponding lever swung to strike the paper's surface.

"I'll be damned," he said.

The paper was now imprinted with a single, vivid letter 'T', as crisp and flawless as if it had been produced by a laser printer. He had expected no mark to be left, given the age of the machine.

_I guess the old man must have kept these things inked_, he thought, with a shrug.

Without thinking, he reached out again to the typewriter, hesitantly at first but then with greater confidence, and typed a few words. When finished, he grinned as he read from the sheet of paper.

_TOMORROW I WILL WAKE UP AND FIND MY LEXUS REPLACED WITH A FERRARI._

His grin faded briefly as he felt a momentary chill chase up the middle of his back, but the moment passed and then he laughed out loud. The typewriter looked _great_ on the desk, just as he knew it would. It had been a very wise purchase, and he knew that he now felt completely at home in this house.

_Who knows?_ he thought as he turned to leave the writing room, reaching for the light-switch as he stepped through the door. _Maybe I'll even use it instead of the laptop._

* * *

**Ingles Residence  
August 13  
6:45 AM**

James was torn from sleep by the familiar beeping of the bedside alarm clock, and he reached to silence it just as Angela groaned and turned away from the sound. He had a 40 minute commute to his firm's offices each day, so it was time to get up.

He was showered and dressed within 25 minutes, and with the coffee machine already bubbling contentedly in the kitchen he walked through to the front hallway to retrieve the morning newspaper. He opened the door, began to bend down to pick up the rolled-up and somewhat bashed paper, and then he stopped dead.

His silver Lexus, always parked in the driveway only 8 metres or so from the front door, was gone. In its place, an unmistakable vehicle. The sleek lines, large tyres, reduced height and blazing red bodywork could be identified by any man or boy in the country - to say nothing of the distinctive yellow badge depicting a black stallion.

"Jesus," he said, but almost no sound came from his mouth. After a moment, he quickly stepped back inside and closed the door.

The hallway, sunny and comforting only a minute before, was suddenly full of subtle shadows. The hair on the back of neck was standing fully on end, and he could feel his pulse quicken.

_OK, it's a joke. It's someone's idea of a joke,_ his mind chattered, but some other, older part of his consciousness seemed to know better. This was not a joke, and it certainly wasn't a laughing matter.

It took only 45 seconds for James to quietly go back upstairs, along the corridor past the master bedroom and into the writing room, but he felt as if he was moving in slow motion.

The typewriter was not there. He looked behind the desk to see if it had somehow fallen off, but it was nowhere to be found. James became aware of a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he knew it was adrenaline. He glanced around nervously, but there was only the familiar room just as he had left it - except for the typewriter.

He looked back at the desk once again, and whilst the machine was no longer there, the surface was by no means empty. A single sheet of paper lay there, and he could see that it was a typescript. There was no mistaking the somehow _odd_ shapes of the letters, and the impossibly vivid quality of the ink.

It was the paper he had typed upon last night, or rather that he had _started_ typing upon. He was unaware that his mouth was moving, reading the words aloud even as he saw them.

_TOMORROW I WILL WAKE UP AND FIND MY LEXUS REPLACED WITH A FERRARI.  
I WILL RETURN TO THE WRITING ROOM, BUT THE MACHINE WILL BE GONE.  
I WILL HEAR A NOISE AND BEGIN TO TURN, BUT IT WILL BE TOO-_

A creak, from the wooden floorboards, very close behind. He was suddenly perfectly aware of the beads of sweat on his brow, the chirping of morning birds on the trees outside, the vague aroma of coffee drifting through the house. He had a brief, vivid recollection of a fishing trip with his father, decades ago, and of the rich mineral smell of the water of the lake that day. This all happened within an instant.

He spun around, nervous muscles propelling him through 180 degrees in a quarter of a second. His face registered the briefest expression of confusion, then his creased brow began to loosen almost imperceptibly.

_Angela...?_ he thought, but the thought was never finished.

A flash of sunlight on metal, the whisper of steel through the air, a scream which may have been his own. And then silence.


	2. Chapter 1

**F.B.I. Headquarters - J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.****  
August 20  
9:12 AM**

"Good morning, sunshine."

Scully glanced over at the doorway where Mulder stood grinning lopsidedly, and raised an eyebrow.

"Would I be right in guessing that we have a new case, Mulder?" she asked, noting how his grin momentarily widened at the question.

"Maybe," he shrugged, as he closed the door behind him then walked over to the single large desk which they shared.

She had seen when she arrived 45 minutes ago that the office door was already open and that Mulder's suit jacket was on the back of his chair, so she assumed he had been in a meeting with Skinner. It wasn't unusual for Skinner to call Mulder first and invite him in for an initial briefing, and Mulder would then brief Scully himself. She occasionally found the arrangement irritating, but she also understood why Mulder had never tried to change it.

_Because I'm the sceptic_, she thought. _Because he doesn't want me to debunk the cases before we even get started_.

She frowned slightly at this uncomfortable thought. She knew how much Mulder valued her; that wasn't the issue. She also knew that she'd seen many things in the past few years which defied rational, scientific explanation, and which fit Mulder's theories far better than her own. However unconventional his views could be, he had a keen insight into almost any situation they'd ever found themselves in, and she deeply respected him for it.

_I guess I just sometimes feel less like his partner and more like an obstacle he has to keep overcoming_, she thought. _And I worry that he might feel that way too_.

"Any chance of some coffee?"

His voice brought her back from her thoughts, and she glanced up and gave him a small smile. She was already holding the coffee jug, and had finished filling her own mug before she'd become lost in thought.

"Sure," she said, taking his mug from the draining rack and filling it before walking over to the desk with both mugs.

"You alright, Scully? You seem preoccupied today," he said, and she could see the single, small vertical crease in the centre of his forehead which told her that he was curious and slightly concerned.

"I'm fine," she replied, and he continued to look at her for a long moment before nodding, satisfied, and picking up his coffee.

She sat down, continuing to watch him as she started drinking her own coffee. Mulder was oblivious to her gaze, and was already engrossed in the case-file binder he'd been carrying under his arm when he arrived.

_I wonder what it'll be this time_, she wondered.

She saw his mouth curl into a small grin at something he'd read in the file, and she immediately mirrored the expression without even being aware of it. He was a mass of contradictions and contrasts. His life had been shattered so early, and he carried the burden of the loss of his sister Samantha everywhere he went. He was careful to keep his emotions under close guard, but she always knew when he was thinking about it, which was often.

A loss like that could destroy a person; not just the loss itself, but the circumstances surrounding it. It was the _not knowing_ which did the damage, and the effects on Mulder were plain enough to see, including his life-long quest for "The Truth", as he called it. His had not been an easy life, by any means.

And yet, for all his burdens, he could also be infuriatingly, wilfully immature - he actually seemed to gleefully delight in doing so, particularly when he _knew_ it was infuriating her. There was almost no situation in which he wouldn't offer a wisecrack, almost no corner of the office without sunflower seed casings on the floor, and almost no square inch of the roof tiles above their desk which wasn't speckled with holes from thrown pencils. He also had a rather magnificent bad-little-boy expression which he used mercilessly and with tactical precision.

She felt a blush rising in her cheeks, and quickly took another drink of her coffee. Those thoughts were fairly frequent these days, but they were also inappropriate here.

She waited a moment before glancing back up at her partner, but he was still engrossed in the case file. She gave a small sigh, and he finally looked up.

"You sure you're OK?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded.

"So when are you going to tell me what the case is?" she asked, and Mulder immediately stood up, quickly crossing the room to the overhead projector.

He lifted a series of transparencies from the case folder, laying them on the projector's glass bed, and then quickly turned out the room's main light. There was a moment of near-darkness before the powerful bulb of the projector came on, causing Scully to squint briefly as her vision adjusted. When it did, she frowned in distaste.

"I guess they were tired of fighting over the remote," Mulder quipped, but his tone of voice didn't match the levity of his words.

The image projected onto the blank area of the opposite wall showed two people, a man and a woman. They were lying near each other on the floor of what appeared to be a tastefully-decorated study or home-office, and they were both dead. Even upon the briefest initial inspection, it was clear that the man had died from multiple stab wounds to the torso, and that the woman had died from a single wide wound to the neck.

After the initial wave of revulsion had passed, the doctor within Scully took over.

_Male; cause of death: blood loss and catastrophic multiple organ failure due to approximately ten to fifteen large blade wounds, appearing to intersect with the heart, left and possibly right lung, and large intestine. Female; cause of death: fatal blood loss due to seemingly single slashing wound to the neck from left side to right, severing the carotid artery._

Mulder's mind also automatically analysed the scene, dispassionately reporting its observations and deductions.

_Blood spatter patterns indicate that only the male struggled, and the entire conflict occurred in the area immediately in front of the desk. Blood pooling indicates the male was driven back against the desk, probably by an initial surprise blow from the murder weapon, and then was quickly struck multiple times. He attempted to escape to the left but was blocked by the leather armchair. He then moved to the right, but fell. Blood spray indicates that a small number of final wounds were administered where he lay. Blood and shoe print patterns indicate the female was killed less than one meter from the male, likely immediately afterwards._

"My god, Mulder," Scully breathed, in a small voice, and Mulder gave the barest nod.

"James and Angela Ingles of Akron, Ohio," he said. "Husband and wife."

"She killed him, then herself," Scully said. It was not a question, but Mulder nodded anyway.

"Kitchen knife," he said. "Only fingerprints on it were hers. Found underneath her body."

There was silence in the room for several seconds before Scully spoke again.

"Motive?"

"The local P.D. have no idea," Mulder replied. "By all accounts they were living the dream. He was a successful architect running his own company, she worked in public relations. No enemies, no affairs. They just moved into the house two weeks before."

Scully raised one eyebrow slightly, and Mulder understood her meaning perfectly: _What aren't you telling me?_ He pulled the transparency from the projector bed, and Scully was relieved that the gruesome image was no longer spread across one entire side of the room.

After shuffling through the contents of the case file for a moment, Mulder slid another transparency onto the projector and a new image appeared. It was a sheet of paper, with several lines of typing. Scully felt a chill run up her spine as she read the words.

_TOMORROW I WILL WAKE UP AND FIND MY LEXUS REPLACED WITH A FERRARI.  
I WILL RETURN TO THE WRITING ROOM, BUT THE MACHINE WILL BE GONE.  
I WILL HEAR A NOISE AND BEGIN TO TURN, BUT IT WILL BE TOO LATE. ANGELA WILL KILL ME, AND THEN KILL HERSELF.  
THE MACHINE IS FOUND AT A GARAGE SALE THREE HOURS LATER._

"So it was a suicide pact," Scully said at last, and Mulder frowned.

"That's what the police are saying," Mulder replied, and Scully noted that his tone made it clear that he didn't accept the explanation.

"So what's 'the machine'?" she asked, and he raised a finger in the air - clearly feeling that she had reached the heart of the matter.

"It's the typewriter used to type that note," he said, a small smile beginning to play upon his lips. "The husband bought it the previous afternoon, as confirmed by his employees. Went out and just picked it up in his lunch hour, then took it back to the office before taking it home at the end of the day."

Scully digested his words for a moment, and then shrugged.

"A little strange to go to the trouble of picking up a typewriter for a suicide note, but no stranger than making the decision to die in the first place," she said, and Mulder shook his head.

"That's why we got this case, Scully," he said triumphantly, drawing a puzzled frown from her before he continued. "There were three computers in the house, and two printers - all working perfectly. He was an architect so there were literally reams of drafting paper and boxes of notepads, and a whole office supply store worth of pens, mechanical pencils and markers. Yet he went out and bought a _typewriter_ specifically."

Scully sighed. She knew that her partner saw significance in this admittedly bizarre detail, but in her view it was abundantly clear that the typewriter was only another piece of proof of the evidently disturbed mental state of both husband and wife.

"So how do you explain it, Mulder?" she asked, with a note of weariness in her voice which did not go unnoticed. Mulder paused for a moment before replying.

"I can't. Not yet. The Akron P.D. aren't investigating because forensics turned up no suspicious circumstances and the note is 'evidence of frame of mind', whatever _that_ means," he said, disdain evident in his voice.

Scully's frown deepened.

"I've got to agree with them, Mulder," she said, noticing that her partner rolled his eyes. "But that still doesn't explain why the F.B.I. were even notified of this case. It's tragic, but it's hardly a federal crime or of interest to the Bureau. Where did it come from?"

Mulder suddenly grinned widely, a sparkle evident in his eyes, and she felt both warmth and a shiver chase through her.

"Customs fraud task force," he replied, as if that explained everything. He was now beaming. He waited a long moment for dramatic effect before going on, and a very small grin crept onto Scully lips despite her best efforts to contain it.

"No sales record, service history, dealer record, license plates, or even a Vehicle Identification Number," he said. "For the brand new Ferrari Maranello sitting in their driveway with _zero_ miles on the clock."

Scully's eyebrows shot upward and she opened her mouth to speak, but Mulder continued before she could say anything.

"The only vehicles registered to them are her light-blue Honda, which was found in the garage, and his silver Lexus, which he drove home from work the previous night as usual, and parked it in the driveway. And which is now nowhere to be found."

"And get _this_, Scully," he said, pointing at her with his characteristic exuberance, "According to a neighbour who gets up early to go jogging, the Lexus was still in the driveway at 6:30 AM that day."


	3. Chapter 2

The remainder of the morning had been spent making travel arrangements and contacting the Akron Police Department to announce their interest in the case. Mulder learned that the local police had made cursory enquiries regarding garage sales in the area, and had even sent officers out in two cases, but the typewriter had not been recovered.

"They're not even really looking for it, Scully," he had said after hanging up the phone, and she had not been particularly surprised. It was an odd but ultimately unimportant detail, given the open-and-shut nature of the case. Of course, Mulder didn't see it that way, and she knew better than to argue the point before they had even begun their investigation.

They had left the office after lunch and each returned home to pack, meeting at the airport a few hours later. It was now just after 7 PM, and they were seated side by side on their short flight from Dulles to Akron-Canton.

Scully finished flipping through the in-flight magazine and returned it to the pouch in front of her. After a moment, she stole a glance at Mulder. He was munching sunflower seeds, as he so often did when he was thinking, depositing the shells in a plastic cup sitting on the fold-down table attached to the back of the seat in front. He was deep in thought, and would occasionally grin slightly, amused by some private observation. He tossed another cracked sunflower seed casing towards the cup and it missed, falling onto the edge of the table.

Scully had followed the trajectory of the casing as it fell and then glanced back at Mulder, but he seemed oblivious. After a moment she reached out to pick it up, but Mulder also suddenly reached towards it and she felt his fingers brushing lightly over her hand.

"Oops," he said, turning to smile apologetically at her as they both withdrew their hands, and she returned a faint smile before looking away. She felt a heat rising in her cheeks, and she subconsciously brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

This was the way it always was, she thought. Moments of contact, sometimes accidental as now, and sometimes deliberate, as when he would place his hand on the small of her back as they walked together, or stand so closely over her as she sat at her side of the desk that their shoulders were touching, or any of a dozen other things.

Some accidental and some deliberate, but all innocent. Perhaps not always absolutely professional, but gentlemanly at the very least. She smiled slightly. Mulder had clearly been brought up to believe in chivalry; he never failed to open doors or carry luggage or to say "ladies first". It was difficult to imagine how to strike a balance between his obsessive quest for the truth, boyish mannerisms and old-fashioned gallantry, but he seemed to manage pretty well.

_Enough_, she chided herself, once again feeling warmth in her cheeks. This was hardly the time or the place. Indeed, it was arguably _never_ the time or the place.

She surreptitiously glanced around at Mulder once again and was startled to see that he was looking directly at her. She automatically dropped her gaze for a moment, but the inner defiance which was one of her greatest sources of strength forced her to meet his eyes again.

He was still looking at her, his face slightly in shadow due to the dim light of the cabin. After a long moment he finally looked away, and picked up another sunflower seed. His expression was unreadable.

* * *

**Dawson Inn, Bywater Street  
Akron, Ohio  
8:12 PM**

They had arrived at the hotel after collecting their rental car at the airport, and were booked into adjoining rooms as usual; the modest bed-and-breakfast nevertheless a welcome change from the countless indistinguishable motels they'd stayed in over the years. Once Scully had unpacked the clothes which were likely to wrinkle if left in her suitcase, she knocked on the connecting door to Mulder's room.

"It's open," came the reply, and she opened the door.

Mulder was lying on the bed and aimlessly channel hopping. After a moment he switched off the TV and threw the remote onto a chair in the corner of the room.

"Hungry?" he asked, not waiting for her reply before rolling to the edge of the bed and getting up.

"Very," Scully replied.

"Then let's get some dinner," he said, picking up his jacket. "But I want to stop by the station first; the police chief promised he'd give me access to that typed note."

"Dinner _and_ a trip downtown - who says you don't know how to show a girl a good time?" Scully said wearily, and Mulder gave a wry grin.

"Only the best for you, G-woman," he replied, placing his hand on the small of her back as the room door swung shut behind them.

* * *

The chief of police hadn't been in the station when they dropped by, so a deputy had welcomed them to Akron instead, providing an evidence bag containing the typewritten note from the Ingles house, the receipt for the typewriter (found in the small trash can in the writing room), phone records for the 48 hours before the incident, and a copy of the written statements of several of James Ingles' employees, two of his wife's co-workers, and three of their neighbours.

They were now seated in a semi-private booth in an Italian restaurant about a mile from their hotel. They had ordered a few minutes ago, and Scully was sipping ice water whilst reading some of the statements. Mulder was staring out a nearby window but not actually seeing anything; he was clearly deep in thought. He had read the typewritten note several times, and he still held it in his hands. At length, he looked up.

"Anything interesting?" he asked, and Scully slowly shook her head, closing the case folder.

"Everybody says that both parties seemed happy and content the day before; nothing out of the ordinary."

Mulder nodded, unconsciously pushing his lower lip out slightly. "Not the behaviour you'd expect from two people who were already planning to be dead the next morning."

Scully tilted her head slightly, conceding the point, before he continued.

"Anything in the employee statements about the typewriter?"

"Quite a lot," she replied, "and everyone says the same thing: he was thrilled with it. He apparently said that it was 'perfect' and that it would be the finishing touch in his 'writing room', which I gather is the room where they were found. He even reportedly said he was tempted to start collecting them."

"Huh," said Mulder quietly, a glint in his eye. "I guess collecting antique office equipment isn't usually high on the to-do list for someone who's about to willingly be killed by his wife."

He raised one eyebrow, and Scully nodded.

"I agree, Mulder; something's definitely wrong with this picture," she said. "If this was suicide at all, I don't think it was planned more than twelve hours in advance. And if it wasn't..." she tailed off.

"A threat, you mean?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"I wondered about that," he replied, "but there were no calls placed from or received at the house after 6 PM the day before, right up to the time it happened. The neighbours across the street also didn't see anyone coming or going the whole evening. The only traffic on their cellphones was a routine work-related text message which came in before James even got home."

Scully frowned. If neither of the victims had been in contact with anyone after getting home, and had seemed perfectly normal beforehand, then there was a large piece of the puzzle missing.

"Well, it's possible that we're dealing with a double murder," Scully said hesitantly, "though the complete lack of any evidence of a third party in the house makes that a little difficult to believe."

"I've had some practice believing in difficult-to-believe stuff," Mulder joked, and she gave a small laugh.

"OK then, so what do _you_ think happened?" she asked, tilting her head towards her partner. "Did it happen like in the police report, or was someone else responsible?"

Mulder's eyes twinkled in the soft light of the restaurant, reflecting miniature inverted images of the candle in the middle of the table. He paused for a long moment before replying.

"I don't think those options are mutually exclusive," he said.

* * *

It was almost 11 PM when they arrived back at their hotel, no longer hungry but noticeably more tired than when they had left. They had decided to reconvene in Mulder's room in a few minutes to decide how to proceed the following day.

Mulder had kicked off his shoes, thrown his jacket and tie onto a chair and undone the top button of his shirt as soon as he got into his room, and was now sitting on the bed casually sifting through the statements in the police case-file.

The first thing Scully had done when she got into her room was to close the interconnecting door, from which Mulder now heard a small knock.

"It's still open," he said, looking up to see Scully appearing around the edge of the door. She had discarded her jacket and shoes and removed her makeup, and looked slightly more relaxed.

"So, tomorrow," she said, and Mulder nodded.

"I'm thinking... breakfast, then we take a look around some of the museums, then lunch, then maybe see if we can catch an Aeros game later," he quipped, and Scully raised an eyebrow.

"No?" Mulder asked in mock surprise, then gave an exaggerated sigh.

"OK," he begun again, "First we check out the house, see if there's anything the police overlooked. Then I want to talk to the guy who sold him the typewriter."

Scully nodded; she had expected that the antique store would be Mulder's first stop after the house itself.

"Sounds fine to me," she said, sitting down at the opposite end of the bed and shuffling some of the files from the case binder.

She began reading through the neighbours' statements and it was several minutes before she looked up. When she did, she saw that Mulder was watching her intently, wearing the same expression as on the plane earlier. He gave a small smile, and she looked away.

_Interesting_, thought Mulder. _That's twice in the same day_. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against asking her about her reaction.

"Tired?" he asked instead, and as if on cue she yawned as she nodded in response.

She pulled her shoulders in as she stretched her back, and he saw the collar of her blouse fall away slightly, revealing a little more of her neck than usual.

_You're staring at her again,_ he thought to himself, and dragged his eyes away, but not before tracing the path of the soft light from the bedside lampshade as it reflected like fire on her hair.

Scully yawned once more and stood up, not noticing his attention.

"Well, goodnight Mulder," she said in a neutral tone, and he waved without looking up. She rolled her eyes at his apparent lack of social grace, but there was a barely noticeable smile on her lips.

She crossed to the door which separated - _or joined_, her mind supplied, for reasons she didn't quite understand - their rooms and stepped through, glancing back with her hand on the door-handle.

Mulder was seemingly still absorbed in the case file, and his face was hidden from her at this angle. Had he looked up, he might have thought that there was an edge of sadness in her eyes.

But he did not look up, and a few seconds later the door clicked shut.


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Well, it's been more than two years since I updated this, but lately I just felt like writing some more. Let's pick up right where we left off.**

**If anyone is still interested, reviews are always appreciated!**

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**Ingles Residence**  
**August 21st**  
**9:53 AM**

"I'm Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully," Mulder said to the uniformed officer waiting for them in front of the Ingles house, showing his F.B.I. ID even as the officer nodded.

"Yes sir," the man said, "The chief told me you'd be here this morning; I've opened it up for you."

Mulder nodded in thanks, and Scully offered a small smile as they stepped past and into the house.

Morning sunlight painted broad strokes across the hall carpet, and the reassuringly normal ticking of a clock could be heard coming from elsewhere on the ground floor. The plastic casing of a large TV in the lounge adjoining the hallway creaked slightly as the house gradually heated up for the day ahead.

_The houses always carry on_, Mulder thought, with the usual mixture of faint sadness and quiet wonder. _For a while anyway._

"I think the writing room is up this way," he said, climbing the stairs to the first hallway and going all the way to the end of the hall. The door was already half open, and it was immediately apparent that this was the room they'd seen in the crime scene photos.

Scully glanced down at the large, irregular rust-coloured stain on the floor in front of the desk, and grimaced.

Mulder had already crossed to behind the desk, but there was nothing new to be found.

"Something happened here, Scully," he said without looking up, placing both his hands on the desk.

"That's for sure," she replied, stepping around the blood stain to join him on the other side of the room.

"Not just _that_," Mulder continued, "Something else, something _before_. James Ingles walked into this room with a newly purchased typewriter that he liked so much he was thinking of starting a collection. At some point that same evening, he typed a note on the typewriter which said he'd be dead within twelve hours."

"The note said that his wife would kill him, and then kill herself. The evidence corroborates that. So the note seems to indicate foreknowledge of his own murder. Yet he didn't attempt to call the police, or anyone else."

Scully nodded, knowing that he wasn't finished.

"So the next possibility is that the wife typed the note," he continued. "We can't check because the typewriter is gone, which would a kind of twisted sense if the wife wanted to preserve the illusion that her husband had either somehow helped plan his own murder and her subsequent suicide, or that he at least had foreknowledge of it."

"But then we have the question of the car," Scully said, and Mulder nodded.

"The car changes things," he said. "Aside from no-one knowing where it came from, it's a detail apparently unconnected to the actual crime."

"So what are you saying, Mulder?" Scully asked, folding her arms. "What changes because of the car?"

He was silent for several seconds before he replied.

"Don't you think that it gives the note an air of... prophecy?" he asked, entirely seriously, and Scully sighed. She has known this was coming.

"I think that's what we're _meant_ to think," she said, and Mulder only shook his head.

She took a step closer to him before continuing.

"Whatever else they were, these were professional people," she said. "They weren't fortune-tellers, and they had no history of mental illness nor any sign of current problems. You can't be suggesting that James Ingles suddenly had an incredibly detailed premonition of his wife having a psychotic breakdown and murdering him the next morning, and his sole recourse was to make a note of it on his new typewriter."

Mulder laughed, and Scully couldn't help but smile wryly with him. She had wondered for a moment if he was going to say that, yes, that was exactly what he thought had happened. He had certainly believed stranger things in the past.

"No," he said, "that's definitely not what I'm saying."

He paused, again looking at the centre of the large desk, starting intently as if he could see the typewriter there even though it was gone. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I think that the car is the key, Scully," he said quietly. "I think that if you bring home a typewriter and you want to try it out, you might very well just type some idle wish-fulfilment like waking up to find a supercar in your driveway. It's the kind of thing I might do myself."

Scully nodded at this, beginning to see where he was going.

"So you think that the _rest_ of the note was written by his wife?" she asked, but Mulder once again shook his head.

"No, I don't buy that," he replied. "The evidence says she killed him, and I believe that she did. But I don't believe it was premeditated. I don't think she typed the rest of this note any more than he did."

"A third party being somehow involved does make a lot of sense, given the universal insistence that they were happy and contented people," Scully mused. "But who?"

"I think... that it all hinges around the typewriter," Mulder replied, choosing his words carefully. "The note, the car, and the fact that the typewriter is missing says that it's important."

"So... someone who knew he'd bought the typewriter. Could be one of his employees. Or someone else who was in or around the store," she suggested.

"I know a man we can ask about that," Mulder replied as he walked around the desk and towards the door, with Scully following.

They thanked the police officer outside and walked down the driveway to their rental car, squinting in the bright sunlight.

"I'm proud of you, Mulder," Scully suddenly said, and he glanced at her with one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"It's just... I expected you to suggest a less _conventional_ explanation," she said, coming to a stop beside the car.

Mulder stopped beside her, seeing that she was considering how to phrase what she was about to say.

"I like being able to agree with you," she said earnestly, after a moment. "I'd like to do it more often."

She wore a somewhat timid smile, and he grinned. He said nothing in response, but instead he reached out and squeezed her shoulder briefly before walking around to his side of the car and opening the door.

Before getting in, he shaded his eyes from the sun with one hand, and looked up at the silent house once more.

_You wouldn't say that if you knew what I think really happened here_, he thought.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I'm taking this slowly, trying to maintain the pace and tension of an episode. I do have the entire story planned out, and I'm dying for you to read it. Things are going to start getting even stranger for Mulder and Scully soon.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated; they're what encourage me to go on.**

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**Akron, Ohio**  
**Better Times Antiques, West Union Street**  
**10:38 AM**

Mulder glanced briefly up at the jingling bell above the door as he and Scully stepped from the sunlit street into the gentle gloom of the store. An older man was behind a counter further inside, and he glanced up with a kindly smile.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, coming out from behind the counter with his hands clasped. "Anything I can help you to find?"

Mulder stepped forward, reaching inside his coat to retrieve his ID.

"I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully; we're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a man who made a purchase here recently."

The old man nodded, his smile becoming tinged with sadness.

"The police said you might be along today, yes. That poor man and his wife."

"So you do remember Mr. Ingles visiting this store nine days ago, sir?" asked Scully, to which the old man nodded once more.

"I served him myself. Most days it's just me here. I'm Jonathan Harcourt," he said, extending his hand first to Scully and then to Mulder.

Mulder glanced around the store briefly before again addressing the man.

"Can you show me where you kept the typewriter he bought?"

The old man's brow creased and he glanced briefly downwards at his own hands, once again clasped in front of him. The subconscious gesture did not escape Mulder's attention, nor Scully's.

"Yes... of course," Harcourt began, "We have a display table for antique typewriters just over here."

He led them to an artificially-lit extended alcove off to the side of the store, which contained numerous antique musical instruments, gramophones, sextants, brass compasses and so forth. There was also a large display table with around fifteen typewriters of various ages. The front row had a noticeable gap where another machine had presumably once sat.

"It was right there," Harcourt said, pointing to the vacant space and then frowning once more. Scully looked at him curiously, but didn't say anything.

Mulder crouched down so that the surface of the display table was at eye level, but there was almost nothing to be seen. A very fine coating of uneven dust, with four obvious impressions where the metal feet of a typewriter would have been in contact with the table. He reached out and brushed his hand across the empty part of the table, and Harcourt visibly shivered.

Mulder stood up again, turning to the old man.

"Can you tell us who originally sold you the typewriter, Mr. Harcourt?" he asked.

The old man sighed, drawing a raised eyebrow from Scully.

"I'm afraid I don't seem to have any record of that," Harcourt said slowly, and his frustration and embarrassment at the fact was very plain to see.

"It's the strangest thing. Just the strangest thing," he continued, now speaking as much to himself as to Mulder or Scully. "I keep such careful records. You have to, you know. I just can't find any record of it." He raised his hands in the air in a gesture of irritated puzzlement.

Mulder nodded, turning again to briefly look at the empty space on the table, before meeting Scully's gaze. She could see that he had been expecting something like this.

"Alright, Mr. Harcourt, thanks for your help," said Mulder, giving the old man one of his FBI business cards. "You can reach me at that number if you think of anything else."

Harcourt seemed relieved that the questions appeared to be over, and he smiled gratefully, holding the card in both hands.

Scully nodded a farewell to Harcourt and followed Mulder back through towards the front of the store. Mulder was just about to reach for the door handle when he heard the old man speak again.

"Agent Mulder?" he said, and both Mulder and Scully turned to face him.

The old man's face was partially hidden in the irregular shadows of the store, but they could see that he was shaking his head. He wore the familiar expression of a man who feels bound to tell a truth, but knows that he will be ridiculed for it - an expression often seen on the faces of the old.

"There... was one other thing. I'm sure it's nothing, but... oh, perhaps I really am getting old," he said, sadly.

"Anything you can tell us may be useful, sir," said Scully, with a kindly note to her voice. The old man looked up gratefully, though his frown had not disappeared. He paused for several seconds before continuing.

"I rearrange the antiques each morning in the sections where we've had a sale the previous day. It keeps the displays looking full, you see," he said, and Mulder gave a half nod - _go on_.

"I'd sold a beautiful compass just the afternoon before that poor man visited; the most magnificent brass piece. I had to move some of the typewriters to redistribute the items in that section. This would be not half an hour before the man came in."

Mulder had never broken eye contact, and knew from experience to say nothing and allow the old man to finish on his own.

"I moved each one of those typewriters myself. When that poor man brought his machine up the counter to pay for it, well, I... didn't recognise it at all. Not at all."

He paused for a moment, then sighed.

"I would swear to you, Agent Mulder... the machine he bought just wasn't there before he came in."

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**Akron, Ohio**  
**Karen's Diner, Elderslie Street**  
**12:17 PM**

Mulder and Scully had checked back in at the police station after leaving the antique store, but there was little new information. Searches of local garage sales had failed to turn up any typewriters, and it was becoming clear that local law enforcement saw little sense in continuing their investigation.

"Mulder, tell me what you're thinking," said Scully, putting down her coffee cup. They were having lunch and supposedly discussing their findings so far, but Mulder had been silent for the past ten minutes, deep in thought.

"Hmm?" he said, looking up from the typescript which he had again been studying. He paused for a moment, and when he spoke it was in a quiet voice.

"He said it wasn't there when Ingles entered the store, Scully."

She sighed. She had no idea what his theory was, but she knew that it would be one part deduction and three parts fantastic.

"Well of course he did, Mulder," she replied. "He's an old man. This whole experience will have been very frightening for him. A customer turns up dead, with a suicide note typed on the typewriter he sold, then police and FBI agents come to question him. It's a wonder his statement was even consistent with the one he gave to the police before."

Mulder shook his head twice.

"He's not a confused old man, Scully - and he's not senile either, before you say it."

She closed her mouth with another sigh. She had indeed been about to suggest the possible natural onset of dementia in Harcourt. She glanced down at her coffee for a moment before continuing.

"So what's the theory? That Ingles somehow smuggled a typewriter he _already owned_ into an old man's antique store, then bought it from him completely unnecessarily? What possible motive could there be?"

Mulder gave a brief laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

"I'm not saying that Ingles brought the typewriter into the store; I don't see any evidence of that," he replied, and Scully frowned.

"So... what's your explanation?" she asked, slightly frustrated but always genuinely fascinated to hear what he had to say.

Mulder only looked at her intensely, with the very slightest hint of a smile. He held her gaze for long moments. She eventually shivered, but didn't allow him to see it.

_Why does he do that?_ she wondered. _With another man it might be smugness, but he's never been that way with me._

_Sometimes I think he can almost hear my thoughts._

Mulder finally broke eye contact, picking up the typescript and staring at it with a trace of awe. His eyes sparkled with a look she had seen hundreds of times: it was his pure passion for his work, and the thrill of the unexplained.

She knew that in this moment, he felt that he was reaching towards and could almost _touch_ something of profound significance, and that he would chase that revelation with every ounce of energy he possessed.

She also knew that he would take her with him on this new quest, and that he would trust no other to be by his side.

It required a supreme effort of will for her not to reach her hand across the table towards his.

Mulder still stared at the typescript. If he had looked up, he would have seen a trace of something he had pondered and imagined many times on his partner's face, but his gaze remained downwards.

"I think there are more like this, Scully," he said.


	6. Chapter 5

**Akron, Ohio**  
**Akron Canton Airport**  
**2:47 PM**

Mulder idly browsed the garish tabloid magazines in the small newsagent store in the airport's departures lounge, but he wasn't really paying attention to their contents.

Skinner had called about 90 minutes ago to inform them that there had been another apparent suicide the day before with a typescript left behind, this time in Salt Lake City, Utah. They had hurriedly arranged seats on the next available flight, and were now waiting to board the plane.

Scully watched him from the main seating area about twenty yards away. His coat and suit jacket were draped over the seat beside her, with his bag. He seemed to be browsing the "I had an alien's baby" type of magazines, and he had his back to her.

_He finally rolled up his shirt sleeves,_ she thought.

Mulder rolled up his shirt sleeves every day, but the precise time of day depended on how interested he was in his work. During a day in the office, his sleeves would be rolled up before she even arrived. On days of field work where he was very engaged in the latest mystery, it might be as late as lunch time before he would unbutton his cuffs.

_It was past 2 PM today_, she mused with a small smile. It was perhaps a new record.

She was brought out of her reverie by the realisation that Mulder had turned around and was gesturing something to her; he pointed his thumb back at the store behind him and tilted his head slightly toward her. In Mulder-speak, this meant _Do you want anything?_

She shook her head twice, giving him a small smile, and he nodded, already walking back across to where she sat.

"Researching our next case, Mulder?" she asked as he sat down beside her, and he grinned.

"You won't be kidding around when I'm selling the rights to the first new photo of Elvis alive and well, Scully," he replied, and she rolled her eyes.

Mulder glanced around the departures lounge in silence for a few moments before speaking again.

"You ever wonder how much of our lives we spend in airports?"

She frowned, considering it seriously for a moment, and then shrugged. It was impossible to estimate with any accuracy.

"Too much, Mulder," she said, and he nodded solemnly before looking round at her. She was once again reading the newspaper in her lap, and didn't notice that she was now the subject of his attention.

After a long moment, Mulder put his hand on top of hers, causing Scully to quickly look up at him. He noticed that her lips were slightly parted, and her cheeks had flushed.

"Thanks for always being here, Scully," he said quietly, holding her gaze for several seconds before finally removing his hand and standing up.

"I think I'll visit the little boys' room before they call the flight," he said, and walked off with his hands in his pockets.

Scully watched him until he was out of sight, her pulse gradually slowing to its usual pace, then her gaze fell to her own hand.. She closed her eyes, and could still feel his touch.

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**Flight 3481 en route to Salt Lake City, Utah**  
**4:06 PM**

Scully sipped a glass of ice water from the tray table in front of her and glanced out the window at the cloudscape below. Their flight was on time so far, and they would arrive in Utah in time for dinner.

_Not that we'll do anything before we've spoken to the local PD_, she thought.

Mulder had left his seat about fifteen minutes earlier to go and use the air phone; he wanted to call ahead and try to get some further details on the case, particularly on the new typescript that had been found. She assumed that he was still on the phone.

She allowed her mind to drift again to the moment in the airport.

_The timing was just coincidence_, she told herself.

Mulder couldn't have known that in the diner just an hour before, she had been thinking about how he would always trust only _her_ to accompany him on these searches for the truth. He certainly couldn't have known how much that realisation had an effect on her.

_But that's exactly what he thanked me for_, she thought, frowning slightly.

_But so what? He appreciates me, and I appreciate him. He was reflecting on how many airports we'd sat in together, and he wanted to say thanks for the company._

It sounded so plausible, but it wasn't the whole truth. His remark had been about more than that; more than just having someone to talk to and share travel with.

_He thanked me for always being here_, she remembered. _As if he knew that I've been worrying about whether he sees me as an obstacle sometimes._

But of course he couldn't possibly know that. No man could.

_He's no ordinary man_, she thought with a small smile, and then shook her head to try to banish the train of thought.

It was less than a minute later that Mulder returned to his seat, with his notebook in hand. His eyes were sparkling, and she couldn't help but allow herself a secret grin.

"This is _great_, Scully," he said in a hushed voice, leaning in towards her conspiratorially. She detected a brief rush of cotton and aftershave and sunflower seeds, and something else too. Her lips parted slightly without her being aware of it.

Mulder had been about to continue, but saw the tinge of red rise once again in her cheeks, and frowned slightly.

"Are you OK?" he asked, and she nodded quickly, picking up her water and taking another sip.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said. "What did you find out?"

He did not answer immediately, instead allowing his gaze to move from her eyes to her hair, which was dark scarlet in the cloudless sunlight of the late afternoon sky.

He did not allow himself to look at her hair often, because that was a dangerous path to start down. She was beautiful; there was no question about that. He wondered if she knew it.

"I managed to get a transcript of what was typed this time," he said, and she once again made eye contact.

He opened his notebook at the relevant page and angled it so she could more easily read it. In his sharp but elegant script was written a stark message.

I WILL WIN THE STATE LOTTERY THIS WEEK

I WILL NOT SEE THE BUS AS I LEAVE THE SUPERMARKET

THE MACHINE IS FOUND NEAR THE RIVER THE NEXT DAY

Scully read it and then looked up at him.

"The bus?" she asked, and Mulder nodded.

"Eyewitnesses say he walked right out in front of it as he left a local convenience store," Mulder continued. "They say he couldn't have failed to see it. Local PD are saying it was suicide."

"Who was this man, Mulder?" she asked, wearing the same look of sadness he alway saw on her face when a life had been extinguished.

"His name was Brian Townes," he replied. "He was a journalist who was recently out of work. His best friend said he'd been depressed, and had spent most of his weekends going around _garage sales_ picking up old junk."

Despite the grim topic, Mulder was buzzing with excitement.

"I think we can assume he bought the typewriter last week. This typescript was found at his apartment by the police yesterday."

Scully sighed.

"It's a tragedy, Mulder, but it's not supernatural," she said. "Even if he did find the typewriter, he was out of work and depressed. A lot of people walk in front of a bus when life becomes too much to bear."

She could see that Mulder was shaking his head.

"I don't think so, Scully; actually I think this guy thought his luck was about to change."

"And why is that?" she asked, noting Mulder's growing grin. He paused for effect before replying.

"The girl behind the cigarette counter in the convenience store said that our man Brian here came in to buy just one thing: a lottery ticket."


	7. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I'm enjoying writing this story more than I've probably ever enjoying writing a piece of fanfic. The entire narrative is planned out, staying true to the X-Files episodic format, and I hope you'll enjoy how the story develops. I'm looking forward to revealing how the typewriter works, and why it's so dangerous (particularly to Mulder).**

**I know it's progressing slowly, but there are some scenes I want to take my time with, to really explore Mulder and Scully's inner monologues, particularly regarding their developing feelings for each other. Those aspects are at least as important as the main plot of an 'Xpisode'.**

**If you're enjoying the story, I'd truly appreciate a review - they're a big motivation to keep coming back to the laptop in the evenings after a long day. I'll write this story regardless, but everyone benefits from feedback!**

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**Salt Lake City, Utah**  
**Twin Pines Hotel, Merriweather Avenue**  
**9:12 PM**

Mulder sighed with frustration as he threw his suit jacket onto the back of the drab chair in his room.

They had already visited the crime scene and spoken with the local police, and Mulder had obtained a photocopy of the latest typescript. They were not much further forward in their investigation, though the police _had_ found a lottery ticket in the victim's jacket pocket.

Mulder had advised the chief of police to give the ticket to the victim's next of kin as soon as possible, which earned him an impatient glare.

A bulletin had been issued on the late evening news at Mulder's request, asking that anyone who came into possession of a typewriter (particularly if found near a river) should contact the police. They had had one call, but it was from a confused elderly woman who had in fact inherited a perfectly normal typewriter from a recently deceased friend.

After that, Scully had suggested they check into a hotel and regroup. Chinese food was on its way, and Scully was in the room next door changing after their long day.

He removed his tie and draped it over his jacket, then began pacing back and forth.

_It's close_, he thought. _I can feel it_.

There was no objective reason to assume that the typewriter's next location would be nearby - they had already crossed a large part of the country to get to the latest victim, after all - but he nevertheless had a strong sense that it wasn't far away.

_Call it a hunch_, he thought, with a weary shrug.

And if he could lay his hands on it, then preventing further "suicides" would only be a small part of the benefit.

_This could change everything_, he thought.

A knock at the connecting door roused him from his reverie, and a moment later the door was slowly pushed open, revealing Scully. She was in dark jeans and a casual emerald-green top now, and was carrying both a file folder and her small laptop.

"Come on in," Mulder said, gesturing towards the table off to one side of his room. She gave a small smile in response, and made her way across to it.

Mulder allowed himself to watch her as she crossed the room. Her feet were bare against the thin carpet, and she moved with an easy grace, effortlessly transporting the items in her arms to the table.

_Elegance_, he thought. That was the word. Her movements were elegant regardless of whether she was dressed casually, professionally or formally. The most compelling aspect of it was that it was entirely unconscious; she clearly needed to make no effort. She simply carried herself with poise and unspoken dignity.

He smiled, without knowing he was doing so. He trusted her absolutely, and in moments like this his mind began to weave hypothetical scenarios. What if he was to simply walk over to where she stood? She would turn around, and look up at him with a slightly quizzical look. Not afraid, not taken aback; simply puzzled.

And then, if he were to gently take her hand? She would look quickly down at their hands together, with both eyebrows raised, then would meet his gaze with the slightest frown, unsure of what he was doing.

And if he were to then allow her to see, in his eyes, what he was feeling at this moment? Her eyes would widen, her frown would disappear, and her face would pale for the briefest moment before her cheeks flushed a vivid red. But she would not look away.

And would she pull her hand free from his grip?

His smile faltered. He knew better than to pursue these thoughts, particularly late at night, away from home, and with her nearby. But thoughts were rarely subject to common sense.

Scully placed the laptop and folder on the table, and glanced around. She saw him looking at her, though he had a far-away expression on his face.

_He looks... unhappy_, she thought, a small frown immediately creasing her forehead.

"Mulder?" she asked gently, and his gaze fell to the floor but he did not respond except to sigh.

She waited a moment and then slowly walked towards him. As she reached him, he lifted his head as if with a great effort. She tilted her head to one side in a silent question.

He could see that she had noticed his expression and was worried, but there was no way to articulate his thoughts truthfully without raising very difficult questions. There was something in her eyes at times, when she was looking at him and she thought he didn't know. He wondered if his own eyes held the same tone at this moment.

_What could have made you feel like this?_ she wondered, and suddenly she had an undeniable urge to touch him; to comfort him somehow. Her fingers twitched on their own as she considered reaching for his hand, but then he reached out and took hers instead.

She glanced quickly down at their hands together, feeling her eyebrows raise and her pulse quicken, then she forced herself to look at him. She hoped that she wasn't frowning, and gave him a small smile.

He grinned at some secret thought of his own, and in her surprise she mirrored the gesture.

He smiled at her for just a moment longer than was necessary, seeming to ask himself a question and perhaps arriving at an answer, then gave her hand a brief squeeze before releasing it.

_What was that about?_ she wondered, feeling heat on her cheeks that she hoped wasn't visible, and she opened her mouth to say something - she had no idea what - but was interrupted by a knock at the external door.

"Dinner is served," Mulder said, brightly, walking towards the door as he reached for his wallet, and Scully could only give her head a brief shake to clear it.

Whatever moment they had shared had appeared suddenly, and passed just as quickly. She tried to replay the last few minutes, but her growling stomach pushed the thoughts away.

With a small sigh, she once again crossed to the table to clear some space, resolutely thinking about anything except Mulder.

* * *

Scully glanced up from the laptop screen and surreptitiously glanced at her partner.

He was sitting on the floor against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him with the file folder discarded nearby, and its contents spread across his thighs. One hand was behind his neck, and the other was absent-mindedly running through his hair. He wore an expression of furious concentration. Quite unbeknownst to him, his tongue was sticking out.

She shook with silent laughter, using every ounce of self-control to avoid making a sound. A warm feeling bloomed in her chest, and all of the tension which had built up in her shoulders as she typed immediately flowed away.

_I wish I knew how to let myself be with you_, she thought.

Mulder was reading the typescripts yet again, trying to discern a useful pattern, when he had the sense that he was being watched. He glanced up at Scully, and his mouth fell slightly open.

_Wow_, he thought.

She was smiling at him, not timidly or carefully as she often did, but without restraint. The smile reached all the way to her eyes, which were sparkling in the light from the three lamps in the room, and her gaze was soft and warm. Her expression was one of such unhidden affection that he felt his pulse instantly quicken, and his heart seemed to rise several inches in his chest.

Mulder grinned widely back at her, slightly puzzled but clearly delighted, and she blushed.

"Mulder, you were sticking your tongue out," she said, barely managing not to laugh, and his exaggerated look of macho disbelief produced a peal of laughter from her.

He smiled once again as she shook her head and reached up to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

_I love that I can do that to her_, he thought, and this time he didn't feel the need to follow with either an analysis or a reprimand of himself.

She met his gaze once again, and several seconds passed before he looked down, ever so slightly bashfully, at his own hands which now rested on his legs.

"Scully," he began quietly, without looking up, and she felt her eyes widen slightly at the softness of his voice.

Before he could continue, the shrill electronic ringing of his cellphone pierced the room. He looked up at her with an expression which said '_Typical!'_ and then awkwardly got up from the floor to fetch his phone from his jacket.

"Mulder," he said into the mouthpiece as Scully watched.

He nodded, and listened for a few moments, and then his eyebrows shot up.

"We'll be right there," he said, a new energy in his eyes and his voice, and pressed a button to end the call. He grabbed his jacket even as he spun to face her.

"Somebody found it," he said.


	8. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Now we can get into the main part of the story, where events start to directly affect Mulder and Scully.**

**Feedback keeps me writing.**

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**Salt Lake City, Utah**  
**204 Chesterfield Row**  
**11:03 PM**

The apartment building was drab and unremarkable, especially at this hour of the night, except for the two squad cars sitting outside as Mulder pulled the rental car to a stop.

Scully glanced over at him for at least the tenth time during the brief drive, her expression pensive.

_What was he going to say?_ she wondered, then shook her head in frustration at how the phone call had interrupted their conversation.

_I'm sure he was going to say... something important_, she thought, even though she knew it was useless to bring it up right now. Whenever there were moments like that between them, there was always an interruption - either caused by their work, or created by themselves.

_We never get very far_, she thought. Towards what? She wasn't prepared to answer that question at the moment.

"This is the place," Mulder said, pulling the door release even as he finished speaking. Scully gave a small sigh and followed him.

The scene inside the apartment was almost serene compared to what they usually encountered on a case. No body, no blood, not even anyone in handcuffs. The man who had called the police hotline, one Mr. Ross Henderson, sat at his own kitchen table, looking bemused and slightly anxious. Three uniformed police officers stood nearby, and made way for Mulder and Scully as they entered.

Henderson was a young man, only 26 years old, and looked clear-eyed if a little down on his luck. Mulder introduced them as usual, glancing around the apartment as he did so.

"You said you found a typewriter near the river?" Mulder asked, and the young man nodded.

"On my way home from work tonight," he replied. "I take a shortcut once I get off the bus; it saves maybe ten minutes walking. It was just sitting there on the grass."

Mulder nodded, looking over towards the police sergeant, who gave the smallest of nods in return - the gesture meant that he'd been told the same story earlier, and that it seemed to check out.

"So where is it?" Mulder asked, and the young man shook his head and shrugged.

"I almost wasn't going to call," he said, "because I figured they wouldn't believe me."

Mulder gave a small smile. Henderson seemed to be telling the truth, and it was obviously a stressful situation having police officers and FBI agents in his home late at night.

"You might be surprised what I'd believe," Mulder replied. "What happened to it?"

Henderson sighed, making it very clear that he'd already answered this question at least once.

"I stepped out about an hour ago, to take out the trash - there's a dumpster in the next alley - and I guess I didn't lock the door. When I got back it was gone."

"Anything else taken?" Mulder asked, and Henderson shook his head.

"You typed something on the machine before it went missing," Mulder said, and it was a statement rather than a question.

The young man flushed slightly, and looked down at his hands. After a moment he gave a small embarrassed laugh.

"It's stupid, really," he began, hesitantly, and shook his head.

"And whoever took the machine typed something too," Mulder said, and then every eye in the room was on him. The police sergeant shot a questioning look towards Scully, and she simply raised one eyebrow towards him, causing the man to look away.

"Yeah, how did you know that?" Henderson asked, genuinely confused, but Mulder simply looked at him for a long moment.

"Where's the paper you typed on?" Mulder asked, and Henderson slowly got up and went to a small unit near his patchy sofa, opening a drawer and taking out a sheet of legal paper. He crossed back to the table and handed it to Mulder.

Mulder read it, and though his facial expression didn't alter, Scully saw his eyes suddenly blaze into life. Even from her position several feet away, she saw the hazel shade deepen to vivid green, and a hundred points of light spark into existence, almost as if she could see the very mechanism of his thoughts.

_I will follow you anywhere_, she thought.

It was never easy dealing with Mulder's leaps of belief and deduction, his doggedness to the point of being inconsiderate, or his frustrating habit of not sharing his theories until a late stage, but at moments like this she accepted it all willingly.

She was the only one he allowed to join him on his quest - and the only one he trusted to be there for him. In return, he supplied an utter respect for her as a professional and as a person, and a willingness to share his thoughts no matter the topic. With all others he was guarded to the extreme, but with her alone he was direct, utterly honest, and at times even carefree.

That particular Mulder, the man behind the genius, the man who had flourished despite his past and the gossip of others, was already hers and only hers. The thought was shocking because it was so enormous yet so trivially true.

She watched his eyes move back and forth over the piece of paper he held in his hands, and she was momentarily as unaware of the others in the room as he was.

_I love you,_ she thought, and as if he had heard it, he looked up and met her eyes.

Mulder walked towards her and handed her the piece of paper, now smiling a secret smile, and she held his gaze for a long moment before looking down at it.

**I WILL GET THE PROMOTION AT WORK  
I MAKE NO WISHES  
THE MACHINE IS FOUND TOMORROW IN THEIR BASEMENT OFFICE**

The small smile she didn't even know she had been wearing abruptly faded, and a chill ran up her spine.


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: I've kept you waiting for a while to hear Mulder's theory, and that's because Mulder **_**always**_** keeps you waiting for his theory.**

**Feedback always appreciated.**

**For best results, read at night - alone.**

* * *

**Flight 2378 en route to Washington, D.C.**  
**9:13 AM**

_Another flight_, Scully thought, stifling a yawn as she poured some milk into the small cup of coffee in front of her.

There were comparatively few passengers on this flight, as it was too late for commuters but still early enough to require getting to the airport at an unreasonable hour, and they not only had their row to themselves but at least one empty row in front and behind too.

They had left Ross Henderson's apartment not long after Mulder had received the typescript from him last night, telling the local police that they did not consider Henderson a suspect in any current case, and avoiding further questions.

Mulder had immediately arranged the first available flight the next morning to take them back to D.C., but had refused to be drawn on what he was thinking. He had promised to fill her in this morning, however, once they were airborne.

Before they had returned to their hotel, Mulder had called Henderson's boss (despite the late hour), to enquire about the promotion mentioned in the typescript. It turned out that Henderson was indeed going to be awarded it, and that this had been decided weeks ago. Mulder had seemed satisfied by that fact, but again didn't elaborate on his thoughts.

Scully gratefully took a large sip of her coffee and stretched her neck, unaware that Mulder was surreptitiously watching her from the corner of his eye, with a small grin.

_Any minute now_, he thought.

Scully put down her coffee carefully, then turned to face him.

"Well, let's hear it," she said, and he smiled widely at her.

"Scully, do you know how many people meet their future spouse on a plane?"

"My odds on _this_ one aren't particularly great, Mulder," she replied, without a moment's hesitation.

"Ouch," he said, miming pulling a knife from his chest, and she rolled her eyes, unable to conceal a smile.

As usual, he didn't allow himself to take her remark seriously - it was just their normal playful sparring - but he couldn't entirely suppress a momentary splinter of hurt nonetheless.

_This is why she's such a mystery_, he thought. She sometimes seemed to show signs of caring for him more deeply than just a colleague or even a friend, but her response to his periodic flirtatious remarks was always the same: she'd shut him down entirely. "In your dreams" was a fairly common response.

In his experience, women who were interested tended to make that fact known sooner or later. They may be subtle, but they weren't often circumspect - and practically never contrary. So the only reasonable conclusion was that Scully simply didn't see him as anything more than a partner and close friend.

_But there are still moments_, he thought. _I catch her looking at me, or she blushes or gets flustered when we accidentally come into physical contact._

He sighed quietly. Maybe it was just discomfort on her part. He'd debated this a hundred times with himself, and he was no further forward.

Scully had glanced round at him after he'd been silent for a moment, and had seen a fleeting expression of pain slip across his face. A small crease appeared in her brow as she wondered what had troubled him, particularly when he had been in good spirits a moment earlier - even joking with her.

_Surely not... because of what I said?_ she wondered, a twinge of guilt darting through her as her eyes widened. But that was just a jibe; a normal part of how they spoke to each other. There was no reason that he'd take it personally; the very idea of it was almost ridiculous.

_You can be such a mystery_, she thought, feeling slightly queasy at the idea that her remark might have hurt his feelings - silly or not.

She saw him give a small, sad sigh, and she instinctively reached out and took his hand, offering a small smile. He looked up, surprised.

"You drifted off for a minute there," she said kindly, and he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Is everything alright, Mulder?"

He nodded twice, slowly, his eyes seeming to search hers for something.

_What are you thinking?_ she wondered, determined not to look away. He was clearly pondering something - something about _her_, and it had obviously put him in a sensitive mood. She could feel a flush rising in her cheeks at the intense eye-contact, but she was resolved that it would not be her who broke away this time.

_What are you thinking?_ he wondered, seeing the barest hint of pink appear on her cheeks as she looked at him. It was unusual for her not to have looked away by now, but he still couldn't find the answer he sought. Her eyes were full of fleeting emotions, but they were maddeningly difficult to read. He was aware that his own pulse rate was higher than normal.

_I wish I knew what you're looking for_, she thought, still looking back into his slightly sad eyes. It was extremely difficult to think anything at all at this moment, and she was sure that her increased heart rate must be visible. But still she did not look away. There was clearly still something that he wanted - or needed - to find.

With an effort of will which made the flush in her cheeks more pronounced, she gently squeezed his hand.

For a long moment, he didn't seem to react at all. Then, equally gently, she felt him return the gesture, keeping her hand clasped tightly. A warmth chased through her, and her lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes flicking down to her mouth briefly to see it.

_There she goes again_, he thought. _Isn't that a sign? Am I crazy?_

Her eyes were moving back and forth but had never left his, and the morning sunlight from the small window behind his shoulder made them sparkle.

_Crystal ice blue_, he thought, somewhat nonsensically, before his focus again moved down to her lips. Her tongue flicked over them so briefly that he might have imagined it, and when he met her eyes once more they seemed larger and perhaps even a shade darker. She inhaled a thready breath, and as if that had somehow been the missing piece of the puzzle, he arrived at an answer.

_I still don't know how you feel, but I think I'm in love with you_, he thought.

He released her hand quickly, instead picking up his coffee cup and taking a large gulp to clear his mind, followed by several measured breaths.

She had felt her pulse quicken further when he squeezed her hand, and most of her ability to think rationally had evaporated when she had realised he was keeping her hand held tightly. He had been looking deeply into her eyes, and had even glanced down at her lips not once but twice.

_I have no idea what you're doing, Mulder, _she thought, _but if you try to kiss me I'm going to let you_.

But then his eyes had widened as he realised something, and a moment later he'd hurriedly released her hand and focused his attention on his coffee.

She did the same, willing her pulse and breathing to return to normal. Her mind screamed at her to ask him about it, to not let the intense moment slip by, but with the loss of physical contact her nerve had also gone.

_I _will_ ask him, _she thought, _but not now. Not here._

She heard him clear his throat and saw that he was now looking out of the window. She decided it was time to change the subject.

"Mulder, why didn't we put Henderson into protective custody?"

He turned to face her once again, now wearing a knowing smile.

"I don't think he's in any danger, Scully," he said simply.

She sighed, this time in frustration.

"Everyone else who has used that typewriter has - according to you - been murdered. Yet we've left this young man to fend for himself, without even warning him. Why wouldn't he be in danger?"

"If he'd been in danger, he'd be dead already," Mulder replied.

She looked at him carefully. What he was saying was at least plausible; in all other cases, by the time the typescript had been added to and the typewriter removed, the victim was already dead. But there was still the question of the perpetrator.

"So who's adding to whatever these people type, killing them, then stealing the typewriter back and taking it somewhere else?"

Mulder nodded pointedly at her - _that is indeed the question_ - and again glanced briefly out of the window before meeting her eyes again. His facial expression was one that she knew very well indeed.

_This is where he'll tell me something I won't be able to accept_, she thought. _And then I'll argue with him about it, and say that the idea is ridiculous. Then he'll withdraw - respectfully - but stick to his theory_.

It had happened any number of times. Always the same dance. She felt the same shiver of sadness she had experienced earlier in the week when contemplating her role in his work. Hadn't he at least earned the right to a thorough airing of his views, after all this time?

He opened his mouth to speak, then gave a small, bashful laugh and dropped his eyes - a clear confirmation that he was expecting her to scoff at his next words.

"I really do want to hear your theory, Mulder," she said quickly, surprising herself. "I might not always agree, but I always want to know what you're thinking."

He met her eyes again. The possible double meaning of her words was not lost on him. After a moment he gave a small smile, and nodded.

"I don't think there's a murderer here, Scully," he began, "at least not in the conventionally accepted sense."

She said nothing but did not look away, silently encouraging him to continue. He paused for a very long moment before finally speaking.

"I think it's the machine itself."

She frowned, tilting her head slightly. He was watching her intently.

"You mean, the... typewriter?" she asked, trying desperately hard to keep the note of incredulity from her voice. He only nodded in response, and she could see that he was perfectly serious.

"The typewriter," she repeated. "It's... killing people. Somehow. Even though they actually die at their own hands, or the hands of another, or in an accident."

Mulder actually smiled, a part of him perversely enjoying the fact that she was clearly trying not to pour scorn on what was admittedly one of his more outlandish theories so far.

"Mulder," she began, raising both her hands, palms upward, as she searched for the words; "_How?_"

He hesitated for only the briefest moment before replying.

"It grants their wishes, Scully," he said, "but the price is their lives."

Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a chill chase up her spine as he continued.

"There's a long history of objects imbued with evil intent; cursed to harm the bearer, or twist their desires to work against them. It's a theme we find in every culture, going back as far as any records exist."

He was warming to his topic now, beginning to gesticulate. This time, the effort she expended was to suppress a smile.

"There are stories of pacts with evil gods, or the Christian devil, where the pen used to sign the contract would forever after bring misfortune to anyone who used it."

She nodded, carefully, and he looked into her eyes briefly to see if she was going to interject. She simply motioned at him to continue.

"I think the typewriter is one of those objects - it could even be the _same_ one, taking whatever shape is helpful to its goal. I think it writes itself into people's lives and then uses them to take those lives away. Moving from place to place, down through centuries, always searching for its next victim."

She had to admit, whether the tale was ridiculous or not, he told it well. They were sitting in a brightly-lit airliner cabin in the morning, sunlight streaming in the window, cups of coffee in front of them, and she had chills.

"Even if that's true," she began, very carefully, "it doesn't explain why Mr. Henderson is still among the living."

Mulder snapped his fingers, as if to say that that was indeed a particularly relevant point, and then dug out the latest typescript from the file folder on the seat beside him.

"Look at the first thing it added, Scully - it wasn't a prediction of death this time," he said.

She glanced down at it, though she remembered what it said: **I MAKE NO WISHES**. She frowned; it was an unsettling parallel with Mulder's theory.

"He was _already in line for the promotion_!" Mulder said, openly excited now. "He wasn't asking for anything that wasn't _already true_. He made no wishes, so there was no _price_ to be paid."

His tone was triumphant, and she couldn't help but offer a very small smile. She couldn't bring herself to believe the fanciful idea, but there were few things she enjoyed more than seeing his boyish enthusiasm in full flow.

Suddenly the memory of his hand squeezing hers a few minutes before came flooding back, and she felt a profound sense of loss.

"So why are we heading back to D.C.?" she asked, her tone as neutral as possible. "It's been found twice in Utah now."

At this, some of the colour drained from his face, and he took a shallow breath, glancing down at the typescript once more.

"I think you already know the answer to that," he said, in a quiet voice.

All at once, the sunlight outside seemed slightly too bright, and her spine crawled with the same shiver she had felt late last night when she had first read it in Henderson's apartment. With a great effort, she lowered her gaze to fall on the typescript. The final line seemed somehow blacker and more vivid than the others.

**THE MACHINE IS FOUND TOMORROW IN THEIR BASEMENT OFFICE**

She glanced back up at him quickly, and he met her gaze. His eyes were a dark and almost muddy brown now, the bright hazel of a moment ago seeming to have gone behind a cloud.

She was a scientist, and she had seen plenty of strange and disturbing things during their work together. She was also rational, and a trained professional. Nevertheless, his next words - spoken in a low, somehow lifeless voice - filled her with dread.

"It's waiting for us."

* * *

**F.B.I. Headquarters - J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.**  
**August 22**  
**3:22 PM**

Scully walked beside Mulder as they entered the building, showing their IDs automatically, neither of them really focused on their immediate surroundings.

_This is ridiculous_, she thought. _You're too old to be creeped out by ghost stories in broad daylight_. The indignant admonishment did not seem to carry the same weight it had each of the ten or so times she'd repeated it to herself over the past few hours.

She glanced up at her partner's face, and saw that his jaw was tense, and that two brighter patches of pink on his cheeks did little to mask his noticeable paleness.

_This is dangerous_, Mulder thought. _Maybe I should ask her to check in with Skinner, and I can at least go down there alone_.

But he knew that it would be useless to suggest it. She would no more allow him to go into their office alone right now than she would let him face an armed suspect without her at his side.

_Besides_, he thought, _she probably wants to be able to say 'I told you so' if it's not there._ The thought brought no comfort at all.

They had arrived at the elevator, and he pushed the call button. The doors opened instantly, and they stepped inside. He glanced at her briefly before pushing the button for the basement, but she was facing forward, shoulders tense.

The basement corridor was silent, and they were both momentarily startled when the elevator doors closed again behind them. Their office door was visible just down the corridor, and was closed - just as they had left it.

Mulder automatically walked ahead of her, reaching the door first. He tried the handle, and found the door was locked, as expected.

"Want to skip out and get some lunch?" he asked, with a half-hearted grin, but the grin faded as he saw her too-wide eyes looking up at him.

He put his key into the lock, and turned it, and then twisted the handle and opened the door. His skin was covered in gooseflesh.

The barest hint of a breeze issued from the dark doorway, accompanied by no sound. Mulder swallowed, and reached for the light switch, finding it easily from long habit and flipping it on.

The same office. The same filing cabinets. The same posters and clippings. The same clutter which spoke of a man's obsession.

The same, but more. The intimately familiar room was suddenly filled with subtle shadows. Stealthy sounds. The air seemed to be utterly stationary, hanging thickly just inside the door frame.

Every hair on the back of Scully's neck was standing on end. The elevator seemed too far away. Ancient, primal parts of her brain were screaming a wordless alert - _!_ - and she felt her calf muscles tensing instinctively. A bitter metallic taste rose in the back of her throat, and she felt a bead of perspiration on her brow.

Mulder took a single step inside, and the one area of his desk's surface which had been hidden by the back of Scully's chair came into view.

She heard him exhale, and immediately stepped into the room to stand beside him. Her eyes fell upon the desk surface.

_Like a spider_, Mulder thought.

It was black metal, with a gleam entirely too dull for the ambient light. A black which was too black to ever be properly lit.

Its levers were the colour of painted coffin-wood, and each one twisted upwards to end in a yellowed disc with a letter inscribed. They looked like teeth, rotted but always sharp, waiting perfectly still.

Shadows criss-crossed its surface - far too many for the sources of light in the office. There was an unpleasant sense of _movement_ in the recesses between the keys, falling into the darkness of the mechanism which presumably lurked beneath.

Though the desk was cluttered, there was a sense that everything else around it - case files, pencils, sunflower seeds - was straining to move as far from it as possible.

Threaded into the top of the baleful machine was a sheet of his office notepaper, headed _From the desk of Special Agent Fox Mulder_.

Scully's heart hammered in her chest. She had a brief, wild mental image of the machine jumping from the desk across at them, and forced herself to try to regain some self-control. She had a strong sense that she should not take her eyes from it, but risked a glance up at her partner's face.

There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes were a stormy grey. He was breathing rapidly.

For the second time that day, she reached out and took his hand.


End file.
